Yours,
Sarah
Nausea swirled, and Rachel clamped her hand over her mouth. So many lies. Arran not only a marquess rather than a mister, but married. And he’d been unfaithful to his wife, Sarah. Did she know of his affairs? Perhaps she did. The marchioness had noted they had much to discuss.
Oh God.
How could she have been such a bloody twit? Of course, when he’d spoken of a more permanent arrangement, he’d meant her being his ladybird not his wife. Arran had guessed her foundling school truth, so probably her illegitimacy had shone through as well. Not to mention the way she’d fallen into his bed so fast. Perfect mistress material for a lying lord.
Rising abruptly to her feet, Rachel dashed across the room for her satchel, and began stuffing her belongings inside. She had to get away from this horrid inn. No longer was this a magical place of pleasure and freedom and bold adventure. Instead, it told a too-common tawdry tale of a starry-eyed maid falling under the spell of a handsome lord and losing all reason.
Her gaze fell on her beautiful new cloak. Pride demanded she leave it behind, but it could well be the difference between life and death in the icy winter temperatures, so she quickly donned it, and slung her satchel over her arm.
When she peeked out into the hallway it was thankfully clear, and she hurried along it and down the stairs, keeping her head down so no one would stop her to talk. Outside in the courtyard, the cold made her gasp, but at the blessed sight of a stagecoach having luggage strapped onto the roof, she forced herself to run even though the action made her knees hurt and breasts and bottom bounce painfully.
“Sir?” she said breathlessly, as she reached the familiar ticket collector. “Is there a seat?”
“Afternoon, miss,” he replied pleasantly. “I remember you. Inside or out? You’re in luck, there is one inside seat free, a passenger just got off at the last stop.”
“Inside. Please,” she said, shoving all of Lady Farringdon’s coins into his hand. “As far as this will take me, wherever the coach is going.”
The older man frowned. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Mr. Vine knows a lawyer fellow. Or perhaps you need the vicar?”
“No, no, I’m quite well,” she mumbled. “Just ah, eager to leave before the weather sets in.”
His frown eased. “Fair enough. I’m thinking the roads will be nigh on impossible tomorrow. Get in, then.”
“Thank you,” she said, almost managing a smile when he opened the door and helped her up onto the step. “Thank you, sir.”
Minutes later, with a shuddering sway the stagecoach was on the road, leaving the Queen’s Standard inn and Arran behind.
Only then did she allow her tears to fall.
“The smithy’s done a fine job. Good as anyone back home.”
Arran nodded a little impatiently at his coachman’s words. While he was, of course, pleased with the high standard of the repair, it had taken far longer than he’d thought to test the carriage and settle the bill, and he wanted to leave this workshop and get back to Rachel. “I can see. We’ll leave at first light, and be back in London for supper, Simms.”
“Sounds good, sir.”
He sighed. “I would infinitely prefer to return to Lincolnshire, but my new life awaits.”
“You’ll do well in the House. But I don’t know why you don’t just hurl that bloody betrothal contract in the fire. I bet Lady Sarah would rather choose her own husband. Not the dark ages anymore.”
Arran’s lips twitched at the frank opinion. While he would dearly love to do just that, he needed to talk to Lady Sarah first. A gentleman could not in good conscience leave a lady in the lurch. “I can only hope she has someone in mind, for I wish to wed another woman.”
“Your inn wife.”
“Miss Lindsay is her name. For now, at least. She’ll be accompanying me to London, and must be treated with every courtesy, or there will be severe consequences.”
Simms grinned. “Aye, but I think the lads already know your thoughts in regard to her. They bow and call her ma’am…ah, here they are now.”
Arran turned to see three footmen traipsing toward him.
One of them handed over a small glass bottle filled with a pale brown liquid. “Here, sir. Herbal tonic for your ladybird. Jimmy said she looked a bit peaky when he dropped off the note to your room.”
He frowned darkly. “She is Miss Lindsay to you. And why was I not informed that Jimmy had returned?”
“You were out and about with the carriage, sir. So he took the return note from Lady Sarah up to your room. Didn’t want to lose it, he is a bacon-brain. Might leave his head behind if it weren’t screwed on tight.”
Oh. Bloody. Hell.
Arran managed a calm nod, despite the fact he wanted to put his fist through the workshop wall. The footmen had made a lot of assumptions; unfortunately, none of them were outlandish. They hadn’t heard his conversation with Simms, so couldn’t know that on returning to London he would do everything in his power to coax Lady Sarah to end the betrothal contract their parents had arranged, because Rachel was the only woman he wanted as his marchioness. The footmen also couldn’t know that she wasn’t aware of his title, not because he wanted to lie, but because he knew how she felt about peers, especially that damned relative who had hurt her so badly. The truth needed to be told in a private, serious conversation, just the two of them without the distraction of bed or dozens of other guests.
But if Jimmy had inadvertently revealed all…
Bloody, bloody hell.
Arran turned and walked toward
